


The Lonely Hours

by jonesyjonesyjonesy



Category: Led Zeppelin, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF
Genre: 1967 but better hair, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, NSFW, time shifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonesyjonesyjonesy/pseuds/jonesyjonesyjonesy
Summary: Sensible stenographer in the daytime, wild music junkie in the night, you’ve found a rhythm to a life you like. But that comes to an abrupt halt when your parents find out you’ve been rendezvousing with a musician.
Relationships: John Paul Jones/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 6





	1. haunt

**Author's Note:**

> part i – haunt
> 
> "Darling, do you really think we’re the only ones?"
> 
> notes: nsfw, fluff, angst, swearing  
> (#publicindecency #fingerfucking #exhibitionism #orgasmdenial #withholding)
> 
> *please note time jumps back and forth in this fic, but tense does not

**_11:23pm_ **

“But I’m a good musician.”

This wasn’t how you wanted the night to go. Far from it.

“I know that.”

Because now instead of spending the precious few hours you have enjoying each other’s company, you’re sitting at opposite ends of his barren flat, unable to look at one another.

“I’m a _good_ musician,” he repeats firmly. “A great one.”

And it’s your fault that it’s turned sour like this.

“John, I know.” 

You still aren’t exactly clear on how your mother and father found out about your relationship with John. Your suspicion started when a note from John disappeared from your nightstand – a careless accident on your part. You’re confident it was your sister’s sticky fingers who were at fault; no doubt she was bitter that you refused to let her borrow your new platforms (this was after a long string of tension filled incidents: her constantly preoccupied with the excitement and novelty of youth and you trying to balance your independence from your family as a working woman).

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

He very well wouldn’t. You often think about how lucky John is to not ever have had his creativity questioned by his family. You can barely pick up a pen without your mother asking you why you think it’s worth the time to write down stories that aren’t true.

“It’s…complicated,” you say.

It isn’t. Not really. As you left the house this evening, your father stepped in front of you before you could reach the door, the missing note rumpled in his hand.

You had feigned ignorance at first and insisted it was from an old boyfriend (“You know, the sad looking one who threw pebbles at my window”) and that you were only going to your friend’s house to help her block a quilt, but the outfit you had chosen for tonight suggested otherwise.

“When did you lose your sense?” your father asked, gesturing vaguely toward your corduroy miniskirt.

“When do you think?” your mother replied before you could speak.

You all knew what she meant, including your little sister who was listening at the top of the stairs, trying to stay hidden.

The record shop. That’s when it started. Several months ago, you began stopping there almost daily to unwind from your long and emotionally arduous days working as a stenographer at an ad agency. There, you swallowed up new sounds and new colors, your record collection and wardrobe choices creating a raucousness in the house. Your parents weren’t too keen on either development, but your little sister found it fascinating and often begged you to take her with you.

Maybe if you had, you wonder, she wouldn’t have sold you down the river.

At the record shop, you met John. The two of you, across from one another, sorting through records and stealing glances when you were sure the other wasn’t looking. If it weren’t for Rosie, the redheaded cashier who you befriended quickly, the two of you would have never spoken.

Perhaps it would have been better that way.

But this story is for a different day. It feels too far away right now. You wish you could visit it. Because in that moment, you couldn’t have possibly imagined this one, so full of heartache.

“Then explain it to me,” John demands.

Before you left the house, your mother tried to give you a smile, “We just want what’s best for you, Y/N.” You couldn’t even look at her. You knew the moment you stopped being _good_ they would turn on you.

You reply, “They just don’t understand it. They…didn’t expect it.”

“If _you_ don’t have a problem with it, then it doesn’t matter. Which means that because they have a problem with me, with what I do, and you’re doing…” he pauses and swallows. The words are there, but too harsh to say. “Because you’re doing _this,_ you actually _do_ have a problem with it.”

“That’s not fair.”

John’s jaw hardens, his gaze on the tips of his shoes. And in the smallest voice, he asks, “Why’d you even come then?”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_8:08pm_ **

On the train, your hand in your pocket, you feel the rivets and folds in John’s letter. You had angrily torn it from your father’s hand and clasped it tight to your chest as you made your way down the road.

You’re angry at your sister too, but she’s young and guilts easily.

You pull it from your pocket, examining John’s rushed, cursive scrawl on the back of a personnel list. He often jots his notes between sessions, starting one place and ending somewhere completely different. Sentences mangled by interruptions and pauses. They’re like bits of poetry sometimes.

> _Y/N –  
> _ _  
> I barely see daylight since the clocks changed. I feel cloudy all the time (doesn’t help I don’t sleep well).  
> _ _  
> New album I put on hold for you at Rosie’s. One of the guys played on it. I think it’s shit, but you might like it.  
> _ _  
> I just read that back. That’s not meant to be a comment on your taste. It’s because I don’t like the guy very much so I’d like to have something nice to say to him and you always say nice things.  
> _ _  
> It’s funny how you seem so close and so far at once. If I linger too long on a memory of you, I lose my timing for what feels like hours.  
> _ _  
> Everyone’s saying we’re in for snow. I know you’d like that.  
> _ _  
> Call you Wednesday. I’ll try not to keep you up too late.  
> _ __  
> – John

You press the paper against your forehead for a brief moment. You imagine him handing it to Rosie, so crisply folded, your name written on the outside. The way John composes moments for you makes you feel important. His schedule is impossible to keep up with, but the in between moments are just as special: the phone calls, the notes left with Rosie that she kept in the drawer of the cash register, and the anticipation of each adventure. 

Your heart has been sinking since you left home, you almost think it could just fall through you, it’s so heavy.

You’ve been looking forward to this night since he had called, late on Wednesday, as promised. “Jazz on Saturday night. 8pm,” his voice was raw and tired. But even though you implored him to go to bed, he kept you on the phone for an hour; you giggling into the receiver at the foot of the stairs as quietly as you could, him regaling you with tales from his sessions of the day.

The walk from the train station fills you with dread. You wish the walk could last forever. Although it’s a purgatory, at least it’s not the hell you anticipate this night will be.

Of course, it can’t last forever.

Silhouetted in a streetlight, you spot him at the end of the block. His hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets to brace from the deep chill in the air. Despite your expectations, your dread lifts, your heart lightens. You work yourself up to a steady clip; you’re late on account of your train and you’re sure he’s been waiting much longer than anticipated. John’s usually early.

He catches sight of you, the girl in the orange coat rushing down the sidewalk. His heavy eyes lift with his smile. It splits your heart in two.

John always seems to be tinged with some sort of sadness, as if he’s lived life a thousand times and knows all about how comedic a tragedy it is.

“I was starting to get worried you wouldn’t make it,” he says, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

Now that he’s in your atmosphere, you grab onto his coat and pull him so his body is flush against yours. He gasps, catching his hands on your waist to steady himself. “You alright?”

You push your face into the plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. Smells like the cedar chest at the end of his bed. You know you should say something, but aren’t sure what. The two of you stand there for a long moment, his arms relaxing around you.

“We’re going to be late if you keep me here like this,” he says playfully in your ear.

“Sorry,” you pull back, recalibrated. “Sorry I’m late. You must be freezing.” You press your hands to his cheeks and gasp, “Oh, you’re like an icicle. Come here.” And you kiss his scarlet, wind struck lips. Your middle fills with warmth and the wind whistles in your ears.

You had prepared yourself on the train to immediately tell him. But with him right in front of you, that seems like an impossible task. You long for him to hold you the rest of the night like this, disappear into his embrace and forget the rest of the world.

John retreats from you and gives you a grin, “That more than makes up for it.”

“I’ve got more where that came from, if you’re interested,” you flirt, shamelessly, as is your way. You can’t help it.

John’s eyes widen and he laughs, “Settle down, love, it’s not that kind of place.”

“Then youcan’t walk around with lipstick on your mouth,” you say, pushing your thumb against his lower lip and smearing the rose toned lipstick onto your thumb.

“Only if it’s my color.”

“Oh, it is,” you smile and lean in to kiss him again, but your attention is drawn away by tune up notes from inside the club. That’s when you notice it’s a nice place. A _very_ nice place by the looks of the woman in a fur coat who breezes in past the two of you.

“Why didn’t you tell me I should dress… _differently_?” you say, running your fingers down the lapel of your coat nervously, feeling the empty thread where one of the buttons used to be. 

“Oh, please, you’ll be fine, no one is going to pay attention to us.” He takes your hand and pulls you through the door, “And if they do, they’ll only be jealous of me.” 

You laugh and trip in behind him. You are greeted by a man who knows John by name. They exchange some rushed and quiet small talk before he ushers the two of you up the stairs. “Table right in the back, they’ll take care of you.”

All the worry you had on the train disappears in that moment as you take in the lush interior of the club. Crystal chandeliers and booths upholstered in vermillion velvet all surrounding a stage. It’s the kind of place neither of you could afford without knowing someone and luckily, John knows and is liked by many different someones. It’s so easy to get lost in John’s life when he invites you into it. 

The musicians are already getting into their set, a jazz quartet all suited and cleanly pressed. You recognize one or two of them from previous nights out with John, although you can’t be too sure since they weren’t nearly as clean cut before. The two of you skirt around the edge of the club, hiding under the dimly lit sconces, until you find the table at the back.

John helps you take off your coat. The pads of his fingers gently graze your neck as he takes the faux fur collar in his hands. You murmur your thanks, turning your head towards him, and finding yourself only centimeters away from his lips. _It’s not that kind of place_. But if no one is looking, would it be so bad?

“Be good,” he warns, raising an eyebrow.

You grin at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm, you’re just an angel, aren’t you?” he says with an eye roll. Your track record speaks louder than your words. John was nothing but a gentleman the first few times you went out. It was you who initiated a pleading kiss on the bench of his Hammond organ from which you tumbled into bed together. 

The two of you squeeze into the booth and watch the musicians intently, unspeaking at first. The upbeat number takes a turn into the B section, the pianist usurping the song emphatically. He looks over to you, “I don’t think I said hello, did I?”

You brush your hair from your face and shake your head. “No, I don’t think you did.”

John blushes, “My manners –”

“Are atrocious,” you tease. 

“ _Sometimes_ ,” he nods and then gives you a dear smile. “Hello, Y/N.”

“Hello, John.”

From there, you gravitate toward one another, sides pressed together, like the inevitability of magnets. You wish he repulsed you, pushed you away instead of attracted.

His knee bounces to the rhythm, his slacks creating another soundtrack against your stockings. A swishing sound you can’t help but focus on, so much so, that you don’t even realize when the first number is over until John asks, “What do you think?”

You look up at him, wide-eyed and unsure what to say.

John sighs, taking your silence as a criticism of the music. “They’re just warming up,” he says disappointedly. As if you would be able to tell. While your taste in music has become more discerning, you’re fascinated by how John can judge the quality of the music.

“I liked it. It was…spirited.”

“You’re far too generous. They’re all over the place. I wouldn’t be surprised if David is already drunk.”

“I don’t know why they invite you to these things, you’re such a critic,” you needle.

“It’s because I bring you along. They all crave your flattery,” he says, his eyes following a white gloved waiter who is making his way to the table.

He isn’t wrong. His friends love when you gush. You don’t have the words that they do to describe the music, the technical ones, so you can only describe how it makes you feel. You’d try and regurgitate phrases and dynamics back to them (“Oh, that part when you –“) and they would laugh and say their thanks. At first, you thought they were laughing _at_ you. You self-consciously brought it up to John late one night as you rolled your stockings back on, drawing out every moment you could before you had to get back on the train home. He shook his head with a smile kissed your temple, and whispered in your ear, “They just can’t believe they’re making you feel something.”

You order drinks. You promised yourself only one on the way over, but one drink turns into two as the music swells to different heights or abates into the background as the two of you catch up with one another, among light teases and long gazes.

During one particularly sweet number, a Cole Porter you don’t know until John whispers the title in your ear, your hand finds his under the table. You examine it, entangled in yours, as if it’s the world. A whole goddamn world you have the power to disrupt.

John notices your fixation and interrupts you, moving his hand to your leg. A flutter passes through your stomach. “Another drink?” he asks.

You have a feeling if you stood up, you would feel the rug slide out from under you. It doesn’t take much gin. “How much longer, do you think?” you reply.

“Getting bored of me?”

“No,” you assure and give him a thwap on the arm. “Just don’t want to be laid out drunk in the gutter later tonight.” 

John begins to drag his fingers back and forth against your knee. “You know I wouldn’t leave you in the gutter. I’d at least join you,” he says and bumps you with his shoulder playfully. “I don’t think much longer. But who knows, they could lean into an improvisation to bore us all to tears the rest of the night and I’ll have to carry you to your doorstep at 7am.”

You blush at the thought. You can imagine the mortified look on your father’s face. Brought home at 7 in the morning by a musician. You can’t tell if you’re thrilled or scared. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he says.

“To a fault it seems.”

“They’d be honest with me,” he grumbles. John leans onto the table, resting his head in his hand. “One more, hm? I’ll get you home in time. “

You laugh, “Won’t mean much if I can’t stand up.”

“Come on, you’re a smart girl. You can think of some excuse.” His hand moves up from your knee to your thigh. “Sudden bout of food poisoning. An attempt at physical comedy,” he mocks, his hand now bending the hem of your skirt. “Hysteria.”

You look over to a table nearby where a young woman sits touching up her lipstick, waiting for her older suitor to return. “You said it wasn’t that kind of place.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, I should have been clearer,” John says with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a _below_ t _he table_ type of place.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. He doesn’t have to explain. You look around again, wondering what is going on beneath the silken tablecloths. “Below…” you repeat quietly, looking askance to the other tables.

The sharp contours of his face look even more severe in this lighting, balanced out by the softness of his lips and the invitation of his eyes. “May I?” John asks softly.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen him. Could never see him again. You need something to live off of, something to think about in the nights when you’re alone again.

You give him a cool smile and draw your knees apart in answer. “Be careful. These are new stockings.”

“I’ll do my best,” John replies, threading his hand deeper under your skirt.

You know he will, with his long and graceful fingers. “Was this your plan all along?”

You feel him pull at the tight nylons around your waist, gently working his hand inside. He shrugs. “No, not my plan. Nothing so calculated as that. But…thought about it,” he says. John resituates himself into a more natural pose and looks back at the band. “Didn’t think I’d have the courage to,” he adds quietly. Now his palm is pressed against your pelvis. His fingers have worked their way to the band of your underwear. “But…a drink or two and a beautiful woman certainly…inspires a man to action.”

It’s impossible for you to look away from the knot of his hand between your legs. You realize the anticipation has you soaked. With his fingers so close, you find you’re holding your breath.

“What will you say? If someone sees us?” you say, a giddy terror creeping into your voice.

John’s eyes stay trained forward on the band. He smiles. “Darling, do you really think we’re the only ones?” One of his fingers slips in between your delicate pink folds.

His finger makes small circles around your clit, every so often striking upon it, sending shockwaves up from your center. You grip the booth with one hand in an attempt not to shudder. With his fingers in such close quarters to your opening, he starts to dip a finger inside you, shallowly at first as if just testing the waters. You press your lips together and let out a small, sighing hum.

“Relax, Y/N.”

You steady your breath.

“There you go.”

You reach over into his lap to reciprocate, but he shoos your hand away. “No, no, one of us needs to have our wits.” And then he delves his finger deeper inside you.

You breathe in sharply, a mixture of surprise and pleasure coming together as he explores your center.

John’s fingers pull you into a trance and before you know it, the band has changed to a slower number. _Lonely Hours._ You know it immediately. One of the first records you purchased from Rosie, Sarah Vaughan’s album of the same name. It’s a song that always casts a spell on you; dark, brooding, luscious. Your heart quickens.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see how the chandelier light scatters across John’s serenely smiling face. Pleased with himself. His fingers find the beat of the song as they pump into you. 

The thrilling sensation of his fingers filling you up and his palm rubbing against your clit bubbles up from your middle. You take hold of his bicep and watch his stoic countenance flinch only briefly into a pleased smile. It drives you wild. 

As the song builds, John slips another finger into you, each movement of his hand deliberate and strong.

“John,” you murmur quietly. You find one of your legs is starting to tremor.

“A beautiful number, isn’t it?”

You swallow. You tense your core in order to keep yourself still. “One of…my favorites.”

“You’re flushed, darling.”

You would laugh if you weren’t afraid it would come out unbridled. “John,” you repeat, your eyes straying to the darkness of his lap where you imagine he must be straining against the fabric. “Let me touch you.” You reach your hand down into the dark place between his legs but he catches your wrist with his free hand.

“Not ‘til you let go.”

You mewl and then say, “I’ll make a scene, you don’t want that.”

John laughs and leans his head over so his lips are near your ear, “Oh, I absolutely do.”

You roll your head to the side and shut your eyes tightly. Perhaps you can pass for someone being moved by the music. His grip starts to let up, gently allowing your hand to the swell of his pants. It fills your hand, sending electricity directly up your arm and down your spine.

John takes a breath as your hold tightens. Your wits are not with you enough to do anything more than softly caress the throbbing between his legs. Just knowing how eager he is to please you is arousing.

“You’re so hard,” you sigh.

“Observant,” John says dryly through grit teeth. His pace quickens inside you.

He’s found you, outside and inside aligned, all in his hand. You try to warn him but all that comes out is a pant, the smallest sound spinning up from your middle.

“Hold off. I’ll tell you when.”

“What?!” you hiss with wide and wild eyes.

“I’ll tell you when,” he repeats, no force in his voice, just an objectivity. _You will wait._ You cannot deny him.

You bite your lower lip. His pace is unyielding despite making you wait.

Your frantically search the band as they crescendo the song to the end at (what feels like) a glacial pace. You feel as if you’re dangling over a cliff, your hands dug into the dirt to hold on for your life. “I can’t,” you whisper. “I can’t, John.”

“You _can_ ,” he encourages. “Just a moment longer.”

How sweet John sounds for having complete ownership of your release. You want to fall and let whatever lies at the bottom of the cliff envelop you. You focus on the pianist’s fingers on the keys, full of the potential energy to fall just like you; you start to let your core free again. The shaking returns to both your legs now.

The song comes to a slow, grinding end. The momentary silence between the last note and the applause terrifies you. John fingers keep on.

“John, please,” you whine in the quietest way you can.

The applause bursts forth, and John whispers, “Now.”

You gasp as your orgasm seizes and rips through you. Your lower lips tremble around his fingers. The cacophony of applause around you only elongates your bliss to its fullest extent. When it’s peaked and the waves have weakened, you collapse back into the booth, catching your breath. “Oh my god.”

“Not god, just me.”

You look over at John, who looks at you eagerly from under shadowy brow. A sly smile crosses his lips. You burst out laughing, “Don’t look at me like that.”

John chuckles with you, snaking his hand out from between your legs. He takes a napkin and gingerly wipes his fingers clean of you. “Like what?”

“Smug,” you huff.

“I’m not smug, I’m _pleased_. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, is there?”

John nods and takes your hand in his. “Well, I think so. Smugness sounds a little sinister, doesn’t it? And I don’t fancy myself as a sinister person,” John says. A twinkle in his eye appears. “I think I’m rather generous, all things considered.”

You laugh and shake your head, “More than generous. Although, I _was_ trying to be good, you know. And you went and spoiled that.”

“No, no,” John coos and takes your hand from his lap. “Y/N, you were very, _very_ good.” He kisses the back of your hand.

You lean back into his chest and he pulls you close. Your rest your head on his shoulder and look up into the chandelier, imagining they’re crowded stars in the sky. 

“I don’t think we’ll be invited back,” you muse.

John laughs, “Why not? I think we make good company. For each other at least.”

If you had told your sister about him, maybe she wouldn’t have spoiled this for you. Maybe she would have fawned over the romantic idea of falling in love with a musician, his high cheekbones, the late nights and private parties. You wish you had told her. You could’ve snuck in tonight and tittered with her in the early morning hours about how you slipped into the shadows of high society. She would have looked at you with her wide and excited eyes and asked if you could take her next time.

The band starts up into _Hallelujah, I Love Her So_ and he sighs contentedly, tapping the rhythm against your arm. “You know…” his face dimples sweetly with his smile. “You are so beautiful when you cum.”

No wonder your parents want you to end things; you’re no longer their obedient little girl, you’re a wild woman.

You look up at John and, while you know it’s a below-the-table place, you can’t resist making it an above-the-table place. You kiss him, a small one, right on his lips. He lets you. When the two of you part, he shakes his head at you and squeezes your arm, a playful admonishment. 

You’ve decided. Perhaps against your better judgment. “One more drink. Make it a double, this time.” 


	2. disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sensible stenographer in the daytime, wild music junkie in the night, you’ve found a rhythm to a life you like. But that comes to an abrupt halt when your parents find out you’ve been rendezvousing with a musician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part ii – disappear
> 
> “So we can stand here in the cold and sober you up… or I can take you home with me.”
> 
> notes: angst ANGST aNgST, fluff, no smut but they’re horny let’s be honest
> 
> ❤ happy vday ❤

**_11:26pm_ **

“I wanted to see you.” 

“That was selfish of you.” 

You go silent. You feel your face get hot and your eyes start to sting with tears that you try to swallow back. He’s right. It was selfish. 

For a moment, you’re both quiet. The fabric between you is unraveling like the loose thread of a sweater. Soon you’ll be a pile of yarn again.

Manically, he launches himself up from the organ bench toward the window. “I’m hot, are you hot?” he says and throws open the window sash without waiting for your answer. 

The freezing air sweeps through the room, but you aren’t willing to fight him on it right now. You tighten your arms to your body and lock your knees together in an attempt to keep warm. 

John leans on the sill and looks out at the snow laden street, taking deep breaths. You watch his knuckles turn white. Suddenly, he casts his glance back over his shoulder at you. His gaze meets yours and for the briefest moment, you see his cool blue eyes set aflame. He’s angry. And you’ve never seen him angry. He isn’t able to look at you very long before he goes back to the window. “How could you sit there all night and – “

“I was going to tell you right off, but – “

“But _what_?” 

Your thoughts are coming too quickly, too malformed and underdeveloped. “I don’t know, I saw you and I – I –” 

“Y/N, come on – “

“I saw you and I was so happy to see you that I just – I couldn’t, alright? I _couldn’t_.” 

“So you let me walk around as if at the end of the night you were still going to be mine, is that it? Wanted one last hurrah? Let me – god, you _let me_ do that?!” his voice wavers. “And you knew the whole night.”

You push your hand into your pockets, feeling the letter again. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly. 

John scoffs and shakes his head. Under his breath, you hear him quietly say, “I feel like a fool.”

Your mouth falls open. Nothing to say, but feeling like you should, like you must. “John…” you say. His name fits so perfectly in your mouth and you wish it wouldn’t. 

“Please, don’t,” he cuts you off. His voice has lost feeling, not even able to hold onto anger. He continues to stare out the window, out at the gentle snow coating the street. “Don’t say my name.”

You bite your tongue because you know you could say his name again and again, ad infinitum, until he would look at you again. You stand, your weight causing the old wooden floors to creak. “Do you want me to go?” you ask.

John head falls back in frustration. He curses under his breath and turns to you, but he can’t meet your gaze at first. His eyes climb up from the floor to your legs, over to the bed, to the door, and finally land uneasily in yours. They’re red. Anguished.

“No. Of course not.”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_10:42pm_ **

“Drunk.”

“Hm?”

“I’m…drunk,” you say, staring down at the sidewalk. The world is spinning slightly and you’re trying to focus hard enough to get your bearings. 

John’s arm slips around your waist. “Will you make it or do I need to throw you over my shoulder?” he teases and kisses you, his lips landing unevenly across yours. He’s better at holding his alcohol than you, but he’s wobbly. 

You hang onto his coat and say, “I’ll make it, but barely.” Your head is swelling with thoughts and moving only serves to cloud your head. You shake them away and yank on John’s coat to bring his lips to yours.

The two of you had finished your drinks, stiffer than stiff, and decided to cut out early from the set. The band had (as John predicted) descended into a sort of lazy and aimless improvisation that bored you both to tears. “Blame me,” you had said. “Tell them I felt faint and needed the fresh air.” It wasn’t a lie entirely. Between the alcohol and the rollicking dynamics of the song, the room was starting to spin. So, you made your way outside, giggling about your under-the-table antics. And now, free from the constraints of the white gloved club, you were able to let your hands and mouths do as they please.

You wrap your hand around the back of his head, knotting your fingers into his hair. John’s hand slips between the buttons of your coat, finding the place where your stomach curves to your waist and pulling you closer to him.

With your eyes closed and your head spinning, you can’t be sure of the physics of how you end up against a brick wall with John pressed against you. The dissonance of the winter air hitting your skin and the warmth of his lips is arousing. It doesn’t matter that both of you are clumsy right now; that your teeth knock together and there’s saliva on your lips. It’s almost better that way, both of you frantic with need. 

You’re enjoying yourself too much. The guilt creeps in. As difficult as it is, you break away and look up at John.

He lets out a breathless laugh, “Sorry.”

“No, no –“

“Getting carried away.”

You put a hand gently against his chest and say, “I don’t mind.”

The two of you stand there a moment, becoming aware again of where you are. While the city streets are certainly freer, you can’t be sure at any moment there aren’t eyes on you. John steps away from you and runs a hand back through his hair, redness spilling across his face. There is something about John that is enigmatic, this interplay between his bashfulness and boldness. It’s what has endeared him to you over the past few months.

“You’re blushing,” you tease.

“Of course, I am,” John laughs nervously. “You tend to have that effect on me.”

You smile to yourself as John starts to wander down the street again.

You watch him a moment on his own; the image of him walking away from you wrenches your gut. You feel like you could vomit, although, could be the alcohol. You imagine him being a stranger, just someone on the street you’re walking behind. A nice wool coat, the plaid scarf, hair a little too long. Someone you don’t know and don’t share any life with, only this moment on the street, never to be seen again.

“You coming?” he calls out over his shoulder with a sweet and inviting smile.

You hurry to catch up with him. At first you walk a foot or so apart to avoid temptation, but of course, the distance gradually lessens. _Magnets._ John’s gloved hand reaches out for yours. Your fingers hook around his, the tacky leather warming your naked hand. He tugs on your hand gently until you’re close enough for him to slip your hand into his coat pocket.

You sigh contentedly, your hand and his snugly inside his pocket and your shoulders pressed together.

“It’s snowing,” John says.

You hadn’t even noticed. The flakes are large and slow, creating a quick cast of powder across the ground. The two of you come to stop and let yourselves be hypnotized by the snowfall.

You watch him crane his head back to look into the sky and admire the elegant line of his neck. If the night had the possibility to go the way you wanted it to, you would press your lips to the tender skin of his neck; that always makes him let out a small and uninhibited whimper.

“You like the snow, right?” he meets your eyes. A childlike smile spreads across his mouth, one searching for approval.

You nod. “I like how quiet it gets,” you say. You look up into the sky too, see the flakes seem to appear from the blackness of the night by magic. “And it makes me feel like I’m…uhhhh….” you can’t find the right word in your mushy mind. Instead, you stick out your tongue to catch a snowflake.

John laughs, “Like a child?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, tongue still lolled out of your mouth.

“I guess it makes everyone feel that way a bit, hm?”

You get one, a big one, the frozen mass immediately melting onto your tongue. God, you wish you could be a child again; you’re desperate for that simplicity and that unadulterated feeling of freedom. You close your eyes a moment and let out a sigh. “It’s nice isn’t it?”

“Very.”

The snowflakes are getting caught in his eyelashes. You are aching, _aching, aching_ to kiss his stupid face again. With every inch of your being. You look away and start to walk down the street on your own.

“What’s next? Snow angels?”

You laugh, “No, not yet!” You look down at the ground and attempt to walk in a straight line. “How am I doing?”

“Not great I’m afraid,” he calls after you.

You turn around and look at your footprints in the fresh snow. “Oh, come on, not that bad!” you say and point down at your footprints which are, more or less, in a waving pattern across the ground. You follow the tracks with your eyes all the way back to John – cast in the streetlamp light, he looks angelic, even though he’s red-nosed from drink. The silence of the snowfall seems to slow down time as he walks toward you, following the pattern of your prints carefully, as if it’s a dance. “Ooo! Look at those moves!” you squeal and applaud.

“I have a couple,” he shrugs and throws in an uneven, reckless spin at the end.

You laugh and reach out to catch him in your arms. “Wow, a musician _and_ a dancer? You’re so full of talents.”

John holds to your arms tightly. You realize it’s because you’re woozy and floating back and forth on your feet. He’s still sturdy and balanced. His eyes land in yours and quite seriously, he says, “I can’t let you get on the train when you’re walking like that.”

You feel a knot in your stomach. He’s right. You’re far too drunk to go on the train alone.

“So we can stand here in the cold and sober you up,” he says. His face is almost dower, but is quickly broken by a grin; he suddenly wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close, so close your feet leave the ground briefly. 

“John!” you screech and then laugh, throwing your head back and feeling snowflakes hitting your face. Time again slows down, your face naked to the winter air. It’s as if you can feel each snowflake precisely as it hits you.

John brings you back to earth and time shifts back to its normal passage.

You have to tell him. You have to say it. You open your mouth to speak, but he interrupts you.

“Or I can take you home with me.”

You bite the inside of your lip. It’s not that much farther to his. Perhaps it’s better if you tell him there. At least it’s warm and he won’t have to walk home in the cold. You’ll have to do the walk of shame and that’s what you feel you deserve.

And on the other hand, there’s nothing more you would like right now than to be inside with him, watching the snow, entwined around each other.

You nod and wordlessly take one of his hands. Each moment since you left the club, you’ve felt yourself getting smaller.

“That’s a ‘yes’, then?” he asks, trying to meet your line of sight with a smile.

You can’t really look at him, the combination of drunkenness and shame starting to overtake you. You nod again.

“Oh, you’re in a bad way, aren’t you?” John says quietly.

Not the way he thinks, but you’re certainly in a bad way. You feel like you could cry. The blood is rushing to your head, throbbing in your temple. You lean your head forward heavily to his chest and sigh. You feel his arms wrap around you tightly. You wouldn’t mind if he carried you all the way home over his shoulder.

Your mother must think that an unpredictable and unreliable musician can’t hold you the same way a “good” man can. But how wrong and far from the truth that is. You’ve never felt closer to someone, never felt someone in an infinite way before now.

“John…” it’s in the back of your mouth. All you need to do is say it. “I…”

“What is it?” he asks, his words slipping through your hair gently.

You go silent. John draws back and looks at you. His eyes both beg for honesty and kindness and, for now, you can’t find a way to meet the two if you spoke. After a few painful moments of your silence, John puts a hand to your cheek, “You feeling alright? You’re so warm.”

“I feel dizzy.”

“Let’s get you home,” John says and, as if my magic, whisks you down the road.

You’re drunk enough to slow down time but also to lose it. It slips out of your hands like a bar of soap and in what seems like a moment’s time, you start to recognize the street and the buildings. It’s all dusted in snow now. John’s flat is only at the end of the block from here. Your moment is coming closer.

Your hand is wrapped around John’s bicep. He’s humming something. It’s just been background noise til now, you hadn’t even noticed. You try and identify the song, but you can’t quite place it. Did you hear it at the shop? Did you buy the record and only play it once? Was it something you heard while out with John?

This is it, isn’t it?

“Y/N?”

You’ve stopped in your tracks without realizing it. Your brain is suddenly clear, feels like the alcohol has worn off all at once. There’s something to be said for a sobering chill in the air. “What song is that?”

“Oh, _old._ Noel Coward something or other.”

You place it. _Mad About the Boy._ Your parents record collection before you invaded it was limited to some jazz standards and classical compilations. You heard that one on repeat at one time in your life, fawning over some schoolmate who wouldn’t give you a second look in the day but in the night would take you on long walks to kiss you in shadowy places.

The snow is no longer beautiful. It’s setting the scene for desolation.

“I need to tell you something,” you say.

“Alright,” he says. His blue eyes harden thoughtfully, examining your face for the signs of intoxication.

“I shouldn’t go home with you. I mean, I – I can’t.”

John’s face falls slightly, “I know it’s late, but your parents would understand I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“No,” you say quickly, “No, they wouldn’t.”

He furrows his brow, almost amused with you, “Is something wrong?”

You nod. It feels like there’s a shooter marble on the back of your tongue and you can’t speak.

“Something to do with your parents?”

You nod again.

“Okay…” John says tentatively. “Let’s get inside and we’ll talk.”

“John –”

“I’m cold, can we get inside first?” he says. His voice has gone flat and his gaze has turned from nourishing to stony.

Your eyes widen as you realize that he knows what you’re about to say. He’s analyzed your behavior, pre-empted it in his questions. You should have known he’d catch on eventually.

But unexpectedly, despite his countenance, John puts his hands on either side of your face and kisses you. A close-lipped kissed so deliberate and poised it shudders down your body, determined to be scorched in your memory. You drift into him, your hands to his, and savor the closeness.

When John pulls away, you swear he gives you an imperceptible nod. _Say it._

“I can’t see you anymore.”

As soon as you say it, it’s wrong. You know it’s wrong from the way he drops his hands from you, the emptiness you feel. Your gut seizes up, punishing you for ignoring your instinct. It’s too late, though, it’s out there. You both heard it and there’s no going back.

John tries to hold your gaze, but can’t for too long. You knew he’d be hurt, but couldn’t predict how it would manifest on his face like this, straining with embarrassment. He looks away from you, down the street toward his flat, his lips forming a tight line across his face. “You told them about me, hm?” He never wanted to be a secret kept quiet; the letters in the cash register, while romantic in notion, have been wearing his patience thin.

You shake your head, “They…they found out. I –” you pull out the letter and hold it to him, “I left this out on my nightstand, um, I shouldn’t have, it – it was an accident and I think my sister, she – I think she said something.”

The combination of the cold and adrenaline is making your hand tremor. Your breath is coming in uneasy spurts.

John regards the letter and a curious, solemn smile appears on his face. “Come,” he says, taking hold of your wrist lightly. “Inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, angels! Contrary to the angst of this chapter, I do not have a disdain for Vday (even if I am a lady of the single variety). I promise once we get to part iii, it will be smooth nsfw/fluff sailing again (eventually). 
> 
> As usual, feel free to give me your feedback, publicly or privately, or leave a like if you’re inclined! I am so grateful for your love and support and I am honored to have you as readers.


	3. pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sensible stenographer in the daytime, wild music junkie in the night, you’ve found a rhythm to a life you like. But that comes to an abrupt halt when your parents find out you’ve been rendezvousing with a musician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part iii – pretend
> 
> “Oh, I think about drowning in you far too much to be considered sane.“
> 
> notes: nsfw, hurt/comfort, angst, swearing, lil fluff  
> #dirty talk #fucking #the c word #titties 😇 #aftercare

**_11:31_ **

You wish you could reach out and hold him, have him drape his head across your shoulder and cradle him in your arms. How you wish you could be the comfort when you’re really the misery.

“I suppose they want you to find a moneyed ad man at the office,” John muses bitterly.

Although they’ve never said as much, you wouldn’t be surprised if your parents’ pillow talk was filled with reveries about what kind of wealth you could marry by secretarying and sitting on laps. “Maybe,” you say.

“Is that what you want?” John asks.

“No,” you answer quickly. You mean it. The men at the office are childish at best and grotesque at worst.

He doesn’t seem to hear you, his frustration still hot and unfettered, “Because if it is, then I’m a very bad judge of character.”

That stings. You don’t want his memory of you to be an insincere corporate secretary who just wanted to play with his time. You look away and say, “You have to know this isn’t what I want. I need you to understand that.”

“Oh, that gives me great relief,” he says sarcastically. “Really lessens the blow.”

You can’t hold your tears back any; several spill down your cheeks. “You’re being cruel,” you say and wipe them away quickly.

John’s ire breaks when he sees your tears. His eyes soften which only makes you feel sadder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Now you’re both restraining yourselves from reaching out. The misery, the comfort. This is wrong and you know it. You swear you can hear the snow hitting the window sill.

You can see John wants to speak; his brow knits together because he’s not sure if he should say it. He lets out a sigh, “You’re a grown woman, Y/N.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, uh, well –” he stumbles into another pause. He’s choosing his words carefully which makes your entire body tighten with worry. “What I mean is, you can do what youwant to do.”

The tension releases in your body. You weren’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it and it’s a welcome relief.

He goes on, “I seem to recall you don’t much care what your parents think about your lifestyle.” There’s a gleam in his eye; he’s found a corner of hope for himself here. You’d like to join him.

There have been many conversations late into the night where the two of you go back and forth about whether you should stay the night. “The way I dress, that’s one thing I can get away with. But to not be home when my mother wakes up, that’s another,” you would lament. John wouldn’t fight you on it, but all while you went would tease, “Only bad until your mother wakes up.” He was right. You didn’t like to push them. You had a comfortable, happy childhood. And you owed it to them to be good, didn’t you?

"I wouldn’t have a place to go,” you say.

“Sure, you would,” John replies. “You could stay here.”

You’re stunned, “ _Here_?”

“Yes, why not?” John smiles. A new energy surges through him, “What would be so wrong with that?”

You have to admit, the thought is romantic enough, but unrealistic. “There’s barely room for the organ, let alone me.”

“Then we find a place.”

“John!” you gasp.

He doesn’t let you try and flesh it out any further, taking you by the shoulders and looking into your eyes, “You said it yourself, this isn’t what you want, right? You don’t want to leave.”

“No, no I don’t.”

“I don’t want you to, either. If that wasn’t clear enough already.”

You try to put it together in your head, but everything is moving too quickly. “It just isn’t possible. The logistics of it. Too complicated.”

“Oh, come on,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “It doesn’t take creativity, darling! We’re two adults, it’s nothing people haven’t done before.”

You laugh incredulously, “You want me to live in sin with you?”

“Yes!” John cries out and pulls you into his arms. John’ eyes light up in yours, new mania spilling out of him, “Yes, Y/N. Live in _sin_ with me.”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_11:19pm_ **

When you’re inside, you see the cedar chest at the end of his bed thrown open like a clamshell, a green wool sweater dripped out with its sleeve on the floor. “You’ll get moths leaving the chest open like this,” you say and kneel before the chest. You take the sweater in your hand, place it gently in your lap, and fold it.

Behind you, the thud of his coat landing on the back of a chair. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“I want to,” you say – you do. Folding his sweater affords a different kind of closeness. You put the sweater into the chest gently. “John, I – “

“Is it the music? Is that all?”

You close the chest and rest your hands on its natural wood. You could give yourself a splinter and you would deserve it.

“Because I – uh…” his breath is coming uneasily. “Would you look at me?”

You turn back to him. John has sat himself on the organ bench with his hands pressed between his knees. You perch on the chest to match him. You sat like this before, on the chest, the first time you came by and he played for you; you sat nervously and watched, admiring how the stretch of his back seemed to come alive as he hit the keys.

But now he’s facing you on the bench. Feels perverse this way.

“I’m not a slouch, you know,” he says. “I don’t just piddle around.”

You nod, “Of course. I can barely get a moment with you, I know you’re not just –“

“I work. I work hard. It shouldn’t matter how or what for.”

You see John’s calm demeanor is starting to falter. It must have taken a lot of energy to lead you inside the way he did, so careful and gentle just to get you up the stairs and out of the cold after you had stalled out on the street. “They told me I can’t come home. If I keep on with you,” you say quietly.

You watch his gaze shift dramatically and quickly, from anger to pity. “Because I’m a musician.”

You nod.

Then, to confusion. “But I’m a good musician.”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_11:33_ **

And now you’re here. You can’t help but laugh. You’d like nothing more than to live in sin with him. And, if you think about it, it’s not as if you two aren’t already dabbling in it, skirting around the edges with your late-night encounters. You grab at his slender waist and lean your face up toward his. “And if I say yes?” 

"Then you’re eternally damned,” John smiles at you, his cheeks dimpling.

The aching returns. He’s so close to you. It was senseless to think you could walk away from this. “You joke, but you should hear the way my mother talks,” you say.

John touches your cheek, guiding his thumb back and forth against the sheeny path one of your tears took. “What would happen…” he says quietly. “If you didn’t go home tonight?”

You pause and run the scenario in your head. They would worry. They would pace the floor. And when you showed up, they would bombard you with questions. At worst, perhaps they’d raid your closet and record collection for anything they deemed inappropriate and throw it in the bin. Maybe they’d find your box of letters under your bed and toss those too (and if they deigned to read some of them, your dignity might come into question, too). And while all of those are losses, they’re replaceable.

This, here with John, is not.

“Stay,” he continues, his voice low and yearning, “Just the night. And if everything falls apart and you can’t stand me, then you can walk away.”

You consider this a moment. An awfully big risk, to be sure. But he’s right; walking away tonight would be a self-flagellating act all in the name of trying to be the girl you used to be.

You’re a woman. And a woman gets to make her own choices. A woman gets to decide who and what she wants.

He’s still waiting for your answer, his scarlet lips hung apart in anticipation.

 _Aching_.

You kiss him, hungrily pulling him to you as close as he can be. John lets out a startled, yet pleased moan. It’s your turn, now, to make him remember you in this moment. Long and slow, each part of your body giving him answer.

His hand finds the top button of your coat and coaxes it apart, but before he goes further, he pulls away, “Is that a yes?”

“Was that not answer enough?”

John flushes, “I just want to hear you say it.”

His eyes are still full of a distant sorrow, one looking at a life where he’s lost you. You touch his face and smile, “Yes.” You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple, repeating the simple word again and again. “I’ll stay.”

“Then take off your coat, hm? Act like you’re going to stay awhile?”

You hold your arms out and say plainly, “You can take it off, you already started anyway.”

He gives you a small smile, but you can tell he’s still uneasy by the tenseness in his jaw. “Now, I just have to make sure you don’t change your mind,” John says softly, eyes focused on each button as he undoes it.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” you say. His brow unfurls slightly; you take a moment and admire the avian like lines of his nose and heavy eyelids. “I promise, I won’t.”

John finishes the last button of your coat and puts his hand against your collar bone. He slides his hand toward your shoulder and down your arm, slipping the sleeve off in the process. His eyes flit up to yours, “Just remember, you promised.”

You let the coat fall into a crumple of ochre and black on the floor around your feet. You reach out, press your hands to his chest, and curve your pelvis forward to him. “I know I can’t expect you to trust me right now,” you murmur and push the bridge of your nose under his chin, your words bumping up against his Adam’s apple. “So how can I make it up to you?”

John chuckles. You can feel it resound in his hip bones. “Are you trying to charm me out of being traumatized?”

“No, not at all,” you say and kiss his neck as you had wanted earlier. To your satisfaction, you get a small whimper from him. “How can I show you that I’ll live in sin with you?”

Between his legs, you feel him twitch. “You don’t have to show me,” he says carefully.

“But if I _want_ to.”

You drag one of your hands down his chest and hook a finger over the waistband of his pants, feeling the warm skin of his navel. John’s breath hitches.

You go on, your tongue turning to silver, “Because I want to.”

He’s hardening beneath you. Your eyes meet. He’s ready to bend to your will, it doesn’t take much. “I will take whatever you give me,” John says, his pelvis ever so slightly beginning to grind into you.

You give him an innocent smile. “I’m ready to give you everything. I just don’t want you to drown.”

John laughs, his head bending back and eyes reaching up to the ceiling, “Oh, I think about drowning in you far too much to be considered sane.” His spirit has been reawakened; his comfort and his ease returned to you, in the way he smiles and the deepness with which he considers your gaze. In the way his hand travels lower, taking a handful of your ass in his wide palm. He leans in to kiss you and stops short of your mouth, whispering, “But I’d rather drown than watch you walk away.”

And then, he kisses you, tongue lashing quickly into your mouth. There’s no way to be close enough, even with your tongues intertwining and your hands finding different places to prod and press. You wrap your arm over his shoulder, pulling so tightly to him you’re on your tiptoes, pouring your weight into him.

You might both be semi-sober, but intoxication of both mind and spirit catches up to you. John teeters back onto the window sill, taking you with him. You both laugh and check each other for bumps and bruises.

You pull your knee up beside him onto the wide sill, spreading yourself across his lap. John lets out a pleased hum and runs his hands up your curves. “Jesus, aren’t you perfect?”

You giggle, “As long as you think so.”

He slips his hand under your shirt and takes one of your breasts in his hand. “Oh, I do,” John murmurs, his lithe fingers twisting your nipple, sending a burst of excitement down your body.

You’re suddenly grateful for the window being open, the cold air cutting through the swelter building between the two of you. You feel stifled by the thick fabric of your turtleneck and, without thinking, you toss it off.

John gasps and leans into your chest, “My god…” He starts to bestow languid, worshipping kisses to your breasts.

You roll your head back. You feel heat building between your legs. A relieved exhale falls from you.

“I – can I –“ he says, trying to pull himself away from your chest, but finding it so difficult to bear parting from. He grabs your waist and drags his head away heavily. “I need to tell you –“

“What?” you ask.

John’s face breaks into a sly smile, peering at you from under his lust ridden eyelids. His hand claps against your thigh. “Stockings,” he whispers.

You look down and see there’s a horrendous run stemming from the inside of your left thigh. “John!” you gasp. “You said you’d be careful!”

“I was! As careful as one can be in those circumstances, you have to admit.”

You pout playfully, “They were _new_!”

“Then I’ll buy you a new pair, goodness,” John rebuts and shifts under you so that his erection is placed perfectly at your swollen lips. Even though you’re both still clothed, you swoon at the feeling of him.

You twist your lips in deep thought.

“What’s that face?” he asks.

You pull your other knee up onto the windowsill, now straddling him completely. “Would you…” you wonder aloud, taking a hold of his wrist and guiding it between your legs. “Would you like to tear them off of me?”

His eyes widen and a laugh jumps out of him. “You want me to –“

“They’re ruined anyway. Your fault, if you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, trust me, I haven’t,” John says, grinning madly. He latches onto your stockings, fingers lacing through the ribs of the run. His eyes gleam with anticipation.

He tugs on them. The nylon snaps and rushes down your thigh, a primal grunt escapes from his lips, and the cold air sighs in through the window. An orchestra, in a way. He runs his fingers along the bareness of your inner thigh and up to your lacy underwear that he abused earlier in the evening.

You wrap your hand around his jaw, thumb in the cleft of his chin. “Will you ruin _me_ , now?”

Drunkenness bends time. So does lust. John blinks as if through water. His lips, now redder than red it seems, part. And his hand moves from your pulsing center to the closure on his pants.

“Only if you ruin me too.”

Time plows ahead again. John shoves his pants down, his swollen cock bounding forth. You barely get a good look at it before he pushes your panties aside and buries the head between your lower lips. You lower yourself down on him, hearing his breath seize up. You love that moment of first entry; the sound he makes as if he’s never felt you before, never known the rapture of your wet cunt.

At first, you raise and lower yourself onto the head of his cock tentatively, preparing yourself to take his full length. Your heart lodges in your mouth. You can’t last like this, though. You need him.

You descend fully onto him, a shuddering moan heaving up from your belly.

You try to start slow, but at this angle, he hits you maddeningly deep. It drives your tempo and it’s not before you’re thrusting against him wildly. His hands grip your ass, assisting your chaotic speed.

John groans and pulls you down to kiss him. Your lips tangle together messily, infernal desperation and the friction becoming all consuming.

“You feel so good,” you whimper and lean your hand against the condensation slick window for leverage. It sends a chill through you. That’s when you notice how the heat has built inside you and the sweat budding on your forehead. The arousing dissonance spreading through you.

Your hand slips down leaving the tracks of your fingers on the window. Your thighs are trembling, the muscles on overdrive.

John presses his hands firmly on your legs and pulls back again. “You need to slow down,” he says raggedly. “Or else I’ll –”

You two are careful, this is true; you are in no rush for accidents. But tonight, you are looking to push him, all the way to the edge if you can.

“I don’t care.”

He scoffs, “You probably should.”

“John!”

“Y/N, if I can’t –”

“Look at me,” you demand, your voice a primitive growl, and wrap his hand around the back of his neck. His eyes snap into yours; they’re desperate, both for you to keep going and for you to stop. “I want to fuck you until you can’t stand it any longer.”

John swallows.

“Alright?”

He considers you a moment. You’re too tempting, too thrilling to resist. “Alright,” he nods and steels himself for the ride. He pulls you by the back of the head into an intense kiss as you rev your hips again.

Back again to the throbbing pattern of your hips communing together, John slips a hand between you and presses your clitoris with his thumb. Your jerk away, a euphoric spasm rocking up from your pink center. “Fuck, keep doing that,” you pant.

He follows your instruction. The combination of riding his cock and the way his thumb slips across your clit causes the euphoria to compound inside you. You could weep, it feels so good.

You remember the window, the street below. They probably can’t see you. But they might hear you. John’s voice thrums with you. It spills from him beyond his control. He presses his face between your breasts to muffle the sound.

It’s not much longer before he warns you, “I’m getting close.”

“So am I.”

“Fuck.”

You touch his cheek tenderly. “Can you make it?”

John whimpers in distress, but nods. _Such a good boy._

You grip him with every last bit of energy you have and drive your hips into him. It only takes a few thrusts before you tumble down from an enormous height; you cry out as the heat rips through you and your body tremors from the inside to the outside, and back again.

John starts to pull at your hips. “You have to get off, you _have_ to. “

The way you’re contracting around his cock is making it impossible to avoid cumming. You try to slide off of him, but he can’t wait. He pushes the both of you off the window sill and throws you down on the bed.

You let out a shocked laugh and only a moment later, he cums onto your stomach. John groans, a stun of frenzy and relief crosses his face, mouth falling open. The warm pool of his seed on your stomach ignites you once more, aftershocks of orgasm revisiting you gently.

All you hear is breath. Your heart races. The room comes back into focus.

John slides off the edge of the bed and onto his knees, hanging his head in his hands. You hear him curse.

You dangle your legs around his shoulders in an attempt to pull him back up, closer to you, but he resists. He wraps a hand around your shin gingerly and begins to laugh.

You laugh too, “What?” He laughs harder, “What are you laughing about?”

“Well, you didn’t have to, but you’ve proven it.”

“Proven what?”

John raises his gaze up over the plain of your haphazardly clothed body. Half-naked, ripped tights, bodily fluids. His eyes meet yours and take your breath away, how satisfied they are. “You are certainly ready for a life of sin,” John says. He rolls the ravaged nylon the rest of the way down your legs and kisses the inside of your knee. “Fucking heathen.”

“I like a dance with the devil every now and then,” you smirk.

“A _dance_? That was a whole ballet,” he says and pinches your thigh.

You squeal and draw your legs away. “Don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, eh?”

“Apparently,” John’s eyes widen and gets up. “Now let me clean you up.”

“Could you close the window?”

John smiles. It’s an easy smile. “What, are you cold? With your tits out? Ridiculous.”

He closes the window and returns to you quickly with a cloth to clean you up. He works gently and precisely, with a concentration that shouldn’t be reserved for such menial tasks. Then, he produces the green sweater you had folded earlier and holds it up over your head.

“You’re a puritan now, are you?” you tease.

“God-fearing. Now. On.”

He pulls it over your head and you slip your arms in – it’s like a new skin, a possession of sorts. With John’s wool sweater around you, you feel that you suddenly belong in the barren flat, a feature of it just like the organ or the chest or the wide window sill. You emerge from the darkness of the sweater giddily.

You’re about to thank him, but his face is different now, no longer satiated, but tired. “Looks nice on you,” he says in a distant voice.

“John…” you reach out and touch the collar of his shirt.

He looks away from you. Eerie sadness at the corner of his eyes. “You broke my heart there, you know.”

The moment hangs in the air. The longer it goes unanswered, the heavier it gets, like smoke enveloping the room ready for suffocation. You have a clear head though. A broken heart can’t be mended with more apologies. There’s only one thing to be done.

“Come here,” you whisper, pulling him into you slowly. “Let me hold you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had quite the week and threw myself into pt. iii. I thought you deserved this as soon as possible, probably not soon enough after the trauma of the last chapter. Here I am with some smutty smut for you all (and a lil fluff).
> 
> As usual, feel free to give me your feedback, publicly or privately, or leave a like if you’re inclined! I am so grateful for your love and support and I am honored to have you as readers.


	4. mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sensible stenographer in the daytime, wild music junkie in the night, you’ve found a rhythm to a life you like. But that comes to an abrupt halt when your parents find out you’ve been rendezvousing with a musician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part iv – mend
> 
> “Don’t offer me the world, I just might take it.”
> 
> notes: fluffy fluff, a lil angst (mostly residual), implied nsfw, swearing

**_The following day, 1:03pm_ **

His leg bounces against yours again, the same way it did last night, except this time there’s no music, just the machinery of the train car grinding beneath you.

You touch his arm delicately. His leg steadies and he looks over at you. You could say “don’t be nervous” but that wouldn’t be very helpful, especially when your own stomach is in knots.

“How much longer?” he asks, an edge in his voice.

“Not long.”

John grimaces and turns his attention out toward the window, like someone feeling seasick on a boat trying to focus on the horizon.

You re-cross your legs and tap his leg with the tip of your shoe. You see a small smile cross his lips. “They look nice, don’t they?” you ask, admiring the brand-new stockings adorning your legs.

His smile turns into a grin and he turns away, “Dammit.”

“What?”

John sighs, “I just want to say something untoward about your legs, but feels wrong considering the circumstances.” 

“Oh, _stop_ ,” you roll your eyes and give his arm a shake. “You sound like you’re marching into death’s grip.”

“We don’t know that I’m _not_ , do we?”

You lean over and rest your chin on his shoulder. “Well, if you’re going, I’m going too,” you whisper in his ear.

The train pulls to a stop, a long and arduous shriek of metal. And then the quiet shuffle of passengers. John clears his throat, “I’ll see you in hell, then.”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_7:58am_ **

It’s too early to be up, at least for a Sunday. But you can’t sleep. You’ve spent the past half hour running your eyes around the room, examining each and every piece of it. A room of function, not form.

The night before, after your physical interlude, you descended into sinful hilarity; you had wrapped John in your arms and held him tight, his head to your chest, the two of you murmuring back and forth to one another everything and nothing at once. An expectation of sleep fell over the both of you, entangled together, listening to the snow and the winter wind. But while you were both absolutely exhausted from the mental and physical drama of the evening, sleep eluded you.

John lifted his head heavily from your chest, his eyes half-closed in attempted slumber, and he said, simply, “Smoke with me?”

You shared a joint (or two, you can’t remember) and were consumed with delirious laughter, desperate touches, and longing glances. At one point, John even enthusiastically started in on the organ, which was cut short by a neighbor pounding on the wall. You couldn’t stop giggling and the next thing you knew, his face was between your legs and you fell into hazy bliss.

However, the few hours of sleep that followed have been erratic, interrupted by a hangover headache, and your mind buzzing with questions. Assured now in your womanhood, you’ve unwittingly left the girl far behind. Each minute that passes, the more disingenuous it feels. And while you know the answer isn’t walking away, you’re not sure it’s staying like this either. 

You’re still wearing his sweater, the green sweater, your new second skin. You almost think you’ll never take it off.

John’s curled up beside you, his head resting on your stomach. He’s fumbling in and out of sleep, alternating between quiet snoring and engaging you in lazy conversation. You run your hand through his hair, through the tributaries of his locks. His face breaks out in a gentle smile, despite his closed eyes.

“You know, you don’t even have a mirror?”

John chuckles and nuzzles his face into the sweater, “We can get you a mirror.” Then he adds, “We can get you anything you want.” He pulls up the sweater, revealing the soft skin of your navel. “Stockings…” he kisses your stomach. “Mirror…” your lower ribs. “What’s next on the list?” he murmurs, wrapping his hands around your back, underneath the sweater, and sliding himself up to meet your lips in a warm and sleepy kiss.

“Don’t offer me the world, I just might take it,” you whisper, your nose brushing up against his.

“The _world_? That’s the next thing on your list? My god, what have I gotten myself into?” John teases and rolls off you, letting out a long sigh, “The thing is, I would if I could.”

You smile to yourself, “You’re in trouble then.”

John buries his face in your neck, “Oh, I know. I knew the moment you tried to leave me.”

“Don’t say it like that,” you mumble.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, darling,” John says, tightening his arms around you. He gives you a tender kiss to the neck. “I’m trying to tell you that I would have done anything to make you change your mind.” He kisses your neck again, his teeth grazing your skin. “ _Anything_ ,” he repeats. “And if that’s not trouble, I don’t know what is.”

You turn onto your side to face him and sling one of your legs over his hip, drawing yourself into his chest. The two of you lie there and relish in the quiet closeness. John runs his hand up and down your thigh. It’s that comforting kind of touch, an intimate innocence you can only find with someone who knows you and your body well, well enough for touch to just be touch.

There’s a morning light that’s trickling in through the window, the gray light of a winter morning, made even brighter by the reflection of it on the snow. In this light, you see John’s face in a new way – the shadows are not as dark, the highlights not as severe.

You realize quietly, “You know, we’ve never seen each other in the morning.”

“That’s true,” John sighs, examining your face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more beautiful.”

Your heart leaps. There’s something different about loving someone in the light of day.

John squeezes your thigh and whispers, “I don’t know how I’ll ever get out of bed with you looking like that.”

With his lips so close to yours, you know what he means. It feels like an impossibility. “Well, then maybe living in sin isn’t the best choice.”

“Oh, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“No, I…” you might as well just come out and say what you’re thinking. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

John pulls back from you, frowning,” So, then what?”

“Don’t get – I’m not going back on my word, I’m not leaving,” you say quickly.

“Don’t _scare_ me. Jesus Christ,” he lets out a laugh of relief. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You shake your head adamantly, “No, no, I hope not. I’m sorry.”

John tsks at you. “What do you mean then?” 

“I just think…” you start. “I don’t want to rush into something because we feel like we have to. Or because I feel like I have to, I guess. I just need more time before I leap into something like that.”

A moment passes. He slips his hand against the small of your back and brings his face just close enough to yours that you can still see his eyes, but his breath feels intensely hot. “I don’t want to go back to being your secret, you know,” John says firmly.

“I know.”

“I _can’t_ to go back to being your secret.”

“You won’t.”

His eyes are focused and bright, shockingly so for this early in the morning. “You know, I had this dream about you the other night. Not a – em –“

“Sex dream,” you interrupt, pressing your pelvis into him.

His breath catches and he goes red around the nose. “I mean, I’ve had them, don’t get me wrong, but – “

“Oooo…”

“Y/N, stop,” he whines playfully. “I’m being serious.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Tell me more.”

“Um, this was – I don’t know, I’m just on your street. And I don’t know what your street looks like, but – I’m walking. To your house, to your front door. And I just know, you know how in dreams, you just know things, accept them to be true without context, your brain just supplies it, uh…”

John stops and his eyes dart away from you. He’s usually so quick with his words, so witty and direct; it’s rare he gets lost in thought. You squeeze your leg around him a little tighter. “I know what you mean,” you assure him.

“Right. Yes. Well, I know I’m going to pick you up to take you out. And I’m walking up to your front door. And it’s orange, like your coat.”

Your stomach flutters.

“And I go to knock and before I can, I wake up.” His eyes narrow in yours, as if he’s magnifying you under a microscope. “What do you think that means?”

You can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question or not; regardless, you know what it means.

“Can you believe that in my wildest dreams, the thing I apparently want most is just to knock on your front door?” John asks, tucking some hair behind your ear and resting his hand on the back of your neck.

You observe him, his sweet face broken up by a gravity you can’t ignore. There’s a deal to be made, a promise rather.

“I’ve never picked you up. Or dropped you off. And I have to leave letters for you in the till of a record shop. Who am I to you at the end of the day?”

John’s genuinely asking, not on the offense, but looking for the confirmation of what’s been in his heart all along.

You touch his face. “You’re everything to me, at the end of the day.”

His lips tighten together into a pensive smile, “What do we do then, Y/N?”

It strikes. The truth. What you need to do.

“I have an idea.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“But first,” you push your hand between his legs and reach for him. “You need to buy me a new pair of stockings.”

John groans at your touch, eyes twinkling, “See? _Trouble._ ”

✿ ✿ ✿

**_1:15pm_ **

On your street now. The snow has stopped leaving white banks along the walk. You wish it was evening or early morning – in the middle of the day, your street looks mundane. Shouldn’t the street you live on strike him with a fantastic anticipation? Or maybe you’re thinking too much about _My Fair Lady._

“Is it what you pictured?”

“I don’t really know what I pictured,” he says uneasily.

You take his hand in yours; the green sleeve peaks out from your coat. “That one at the end there. Red brick.”

“No orange door.”

“No orange door,” you repeat, and pull on his hand a bit as you lead him down the street.

You’re terrified, but it doesn’t nearly match the sense of freedom you feel. 

“I should have brought something,” John murmurs, his eyes on the ground as you walk.

“You did. You brought me. In stockings.”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

You squeeze his hand, “Next time.”

“Optimistic.”

You are.

“You know they’re going to be livid I kept you out all night? You know it’s just going to make it worse?” John asks.

You thought about this. And yes, it’s hard to explain away the reality that you were gone all night with the man they told you to keep away from. You don’t know how to say this to him, but this feels right. This feels like the intermingling of the impetuousness of your girlhood and stubbornness of your womanhood. The intimacy of the two only separated by how you handle yourself. You know your answers. “Maybe we’ll be surprised.”

The two of you stop in front of the house at the gate. “Do I look alright?” you ask stepping away for John to get a good look at you. You both had worked earnestly through the morning to get you as put together as possible, which is no easy feat for your clothes being a day old and sex-soaked.

John nods. If he wanted to speak, he probably couldn’t.

You look up at the house and wonder if it’s still yours. None of your things have been strewn on the lawn or left on the curb. Perhaps they were just a bunch of hot air, but you won’t know until you go in. You look at John and give him the most confident smile you can, “You won’t walk away without me. I promise.” You lean into him and kiss his cheek, the plaid scarf brushing your chin.

When you pull away, John’s grinning despite himself, “Kissing a musician in front of the house? What will the neighbors say?”

You giggle. At least he’s still got his humor. “You know, I don’t even care anymore.”

Before you make your way down the walk, you see the front door swing open. Your sister rushes out, flinging on her coat as she goes. “Y/N!” she shrieks. She rushes down the front stairs and down the walk toward you.

You start toward her, but she reaches you before you get very far and throws her arms around your neck. You curse as she throws her weight against you.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

You pull back and spar, “What’s wrong with _you_?! You’re going to get a cold running through the snow in bare feet.”

The two of you are immediately in lockstep, tittering angrily at each other.

“We thought you were dead!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, we –”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Ask them, then.”

“I will.”

In the doorway, you see your mother and father hovering like hesitant shadows. They’ll let your sister do the fawning while they quietly thank god you’re alive and then think of ways to chastise you. 

“Is this _him_?” your sister’s mouth falls open.

You look back at John who still stands at the end of the walk, his hands in his pockets. “Yes, um,” you give him a smile and then look at your sister. “That’s John. I think you’ll like him.”

✿ ✿ ✿

Things will follow tensely, but that tenseness will be broken eventually when John remarks on your mother’s prized Hummel figurine on the mantle. This is the chink in the armor that will grant a soft spot in your mother’s heart (“Let’s have a seat then and talk this out, hm?”). Your father won’t be pleased, but he’ll follow her word.

John will handle himself with steadiness and grace, knocking his knee against yours to keep you from snapping at them as they question him mercilessly.

In the line of questioning, it will come up that he worked with Cat Stevens and your mother will gasp excitedly and say to your father, “You love him, don’t you?” When your father grumbles a ‘yes’, your mother will be endeared enough to invite John to stay for a meal (“I didn’t know you were _that_ kind of musician”). Your father will agree, but only if John will speak with him privately. You’ll roll your eyes, about to protest, but John won’t miss a beat (“I was hoping you’d ask”) and they’ll go off into the den.

Your mother will busy herself in the kitchen, huffing over your behavior until you put a hand on her back and say stolidly, “I’m very happy.” She’ll take pause, nod, and give you the briefest of smiles before telling you to make yourself useful. It’s her way.

At the table, they’ll make you sit apart, but it won’t matter, because your father will be jollier than before, and John’s jaw won’t be as tense, and you won’t have to bite your tongue.

You’ll notice, out of the corner of your eye, your sister moping and pushing her food around her plate with her fork and before you can say something, your name will slip from John’s mouth. You’ll watch him as he tells a story from one of your night’s out, enthralled and wondering what was said behind closed doors that now he’s the star of the afternoon. He’ll catch your eye and, for the briefest moment, give you a smile meant only for you.

John will have to go soon after. “For work,” and that fragment alone makes both your parents giddy with the thought of responsibility. They’ll let you walk him to the door without prying eyes and he’ll shyly say that he will call you tomorrow.

“You were a dream. You had no reason to be nervous,” you’ll compliment.

“I better have been. I’m exhausted,” he will chuckle, eyes falling to where your toes touch.

You will know better, but you won’t be able to help kissing him a bit too fiercely for the front hall of your parents’ home.

When you pull away, you’ll ask, “Am I the death of you yet?”

John’s exhaustion will bleed into a laugh and he’ll run his finger along the collar of your sweater (his sweater), “Again and again.”

Only your sister will see from her shadowy perch at the top of the stairs. Your eyes will catch hers and she’ll promptly disappear into her room.

After he goes, you’ll creep into the doorway of your sister’s room, where she’ll be staring at a record that’s finished its rotation and listlessly spins without music.

She will look at you with tearful eyes. You’ll sit on the end of her bed and apologize. She will too. She’ll add with a furtive smile, “He’s cute. Why’d you hide him?”

You’ll go to the record and flip it to the B-side. Rosemary Clooney’s voice will drowse into the room and you’ll go back to her, wrap your arms around her like you’re both small again, and you’ll say, “Let me tell you everything.”

✿ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we made it. This one came in fits and starts, but I’m quite in love with the little ditty that ends The Lonely Hours. Thank you all for your continued support, your comments, your likes, your reblogs, your 🤣 and 🥺 and 😍. It really makes my day just to know you read it and enjoyed or made you feel anything at all. 
> 
> If you enjoyed The Lonely Hours, feel free to check out my first Jonesy fic, Down by the Seaside.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun with Down By the Seaside that I'm back for more. Please don’t be a stranger, feel free to give me your feedback, publicly or privately, or leave kudos if you’re inclined! I always love talking to writers/readers/passing phantoms. Thank you for all your love and support, it's been so, so meaningful.


End file.
